Cures for insomnia
by planet p
Summary: Sequel to Ice-cream. CHAPTER 8 POSTED! Reviews most welcome!
1. Chapter 1

**Cures for insomnia**

by planet p

xxx

**Disclaimer**

I don't own 'the Pretender' or any of its characters.

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**Home sweet Hell**

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Tucker stared blankly at the note in his hands. It was Debbie's writing – print – with those funny little circles for dots that made it look oh so bubbly. Even the way she wrote her 'b's and 'd's, it always made him think of bubbles.

Debbie had left it on the fridge the day she had left for field, stuck down with the funny polka dot cat magnet with the bow tie. Debbie had gotten that magnet for him.

He vaguely remembered her saying that she had found it in a souvenir shop at a museum she had been visiting with her school. Yes, a museum gift shop. She had been so excited when he had picked her up from school. He had tried to get it out of her on the drive home, but she had held out until after dinner. He remembered the way she had scrunched her nose up when she said that it was 'cute'.

He sighed. Debbie wasn't a little girl anymore, that was true enough, but she was still his little girl. That would never change, no matter the years that passed.

xxx

The note was now a month old. A whole month.

Tucker tried not to worry, for his daughter's sake, but he couldn't help it. He worried. Worrying kept him up nights. Worrying stopped him from eating. Worrying drove him to wait in front of the phone long into the morning.

Thus far, she still hadn't rung.

He sighed a second time and placed the note safely out of sight in his desk drawer.

He would not stop worrying until she was home safe.

xxx

Tucker started at the knock on his office door. He hadn't even noticed the footsteps out in the hall, he had been that pre-occupied.

She stood in the door, casually leaning into the room, both hands on either side of the doorframe – his baby girl.

She was alive, standing right before him, plain as blue skies on a summer day. He sighed, relieved, short of dropping everything and jumping to his feet to half hug her to death.

Debbie looked around the messy office in mild interest. "Coming for ice-cream, daddy. Tuesday's ice-cream day, remember?"

Tucker blinked, only just realising he was staring open-mouthed. "I… um… y… yes-s… of… of course… course," he stuttered, feeling very foolish.

His own baby girl. What was there to be embarrassed about? His messy office? His lethargy? He suddenly realised what was bugging him. Stacking his papers on his empty chair, he grabbed his shirt and headed for the door.

Debbie straightened up, grinning. "So… You got a girlfriend yet?" she teased.

Tucker stopped dead. His… his baby girl was asking him if he had hooked up while she was away? As though she thought that she somehow had something to do with the fact that he was still single. He opened his mouth to object.

Debbie giggled.

He simply smiled.

Debbie grabbed the door knob and pulled the door shut with a tiny snap.

The sound seemed to shake him out of his troubled thoughts. And then it hit him. "Oh my God, Debbie! When did you get back?"

Debbie smirked. She gave him the once over before replying. Her smirk widened. Vest over long-sleeved tee and a shirt for good measure. "Just this morning. About sevenish. I would have popped by but I still had a few things to finalise. Haven't even got round to the debrief yet. That'll be this afternoon, I imagine. Then there's the whole bee-bop-a-loo-la with mission reports."

Tucker nodded, wide-eyed and fidgety. He wondered if it would be terribly embarrassing if he hugged her.

"You cold, daddy?" Debbie inquired curiously, a hint of playfulness about her smile and those eyes.

Tucker stammered. "U… N-no… not… not… r-really…"

Debbie smiled, flashing her pretty teeth. Then she leant across and gave him a great big squashy hug. "Just happy to be home again with my geeky dad," she grinned.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

"So, how have Sydney and Park been keeping lately?" Debbie asked politely, setting her tray down in front of her and sitting down opposite her father.

Tucker stirred his coffee. "Okay, I guess. Same as usual. Yeah."

xxx

"Oi! Broots!"

Tucker looked up from his coleslaw.

Debbie rolled her eyes, only half turning to address the man who had spoken. "What?" she sighed. "Can't you see, I'm on my lunch break? Break? Meaning no annoying bosses bugging the living daylights out of me?"

Cox shrugged, smiling. "Well excuse me for breathing! I only came to tell you the debrief's been postponed until tomorrow morning. Ten-thirty."

Debbie rolled her eyes again. "Go figure."

"Report's due Thursd'y."

"Mmmm…" Debbie nodded. "Now get lost before I sick one of the nurses onto you."

Cox laughed. "You forget, I work with _those_ nurses."

Debbie imitated his laugh. "Oh, how silly of me! Of course! Now it all makes perfect sense."

Cox smiled sweetly and flashed her his puppy dog eyes rendition.

Debbie smiled back, scrunching up her nose, falsely sweet.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

"Shoo-bee-doo-wup-wah." Debbie tapped her hands on the table top, waiting for the popcorn to finish microwaving.

37 seconds later, the microwave gave a little ping.

Debbie grinned and pushed a button to open the microwave door, activating the light, and snatched up the bowl. "Popcorn's ready, daddy!" she bellowed, bounding off down the hall towards the lounge where her father was rewinding the rental cartoon video, 'Finding Nemo'.

xxx

Debbie turned over in her bed, irritable.

She moaned as the springs creaked achingly. It wasn't working. She was never going to get to sleep this way, no matter how many glow-in-the-dark sheep she counted.

She squeezed her eyes shut in effort to ignore the glowing sheep stickers stuck to her bedroom ceiling. They made her think of Kimmy and his zoo-printed pajamas. Cold, and so alone, inside.

She imagined Nadine sitting by the phone, waiting, waiting for something, anything. She imagined her makeup, all strewn down her pretty cheeks. She imagined that she had given up crying.

She had been so happy. Now only broken dreams lay behind as a reminder of all that had been and all that was. She had nothing now. No baby, no home, no comfort, no loving arms. But she had guilt. She had sorrow. That glimmer of hope had been cruelly snatched away and crushed into dirt, ground underfoot, distorted by invisible tears, unending pain.

But here she was, good old Debbie, tucked safe and sound in her bed, writhing with guilt, frozen with fear. She still had a life. But in the end it would be slowly eaten up by the darkness inside. Sweet servitude was both her salvation and her undoing.

The young woman shook her head against her pillow. _Don't even go there._

_You did your job. It's over now._

_You stupid cow! Stupid selfish bloody cow! It's always about you, isn't it? Always about poor hard done by Debbie! God, you make me sick!_

_It can never be over! Never!_

_Go on! Keep pretending you don't see it! You don't hear it!_

_But you know it! You know what Hell is. And you're gonna burn._

_Because this is Hell, and you've not seen anything yet. The tour is over. Let the term begin…_

"NO!" The young woman pushed her blankets roughly to the end of the bed. She sat frozen, bound by unknowable shadows, taunted by ageless demons, and all she was, a girl that she thought she had once known. She had been wrong.

xxx

Debbie hugged her pillow tight to her chest, closed her eyes, and thought about asking her daddy if she could sleep with him.

She never would. He would take it the wrong way. She wasn't a little girl anymore, except she was.

Only this time, there were no nightlights to scare away the whispers in the night; no bedtime stories to send her sweetly into slumber thinking of her castles in the air, no dolly to hug tight and know that it would be alright in the morning because dolly always kept her promise and never left her lonely.

Now there was only the truth and the lies and those who refused to see.

xxx

Finally sleep came and found her, took her in its arms and whispered 'sleep, my little one', and she did.

_Blue. Oh so blue. She stood on the edge. Another step and she might fall. Waves swelled and crashed below, churning, writhing, twisting, lost in the throws of a forgotten battle. Above lay the world, the future, freedom. And here she stood. On the edge. With a choice to make._

The dream changed. Sweet surrender died with all of that blue. Her slumber sank into restlessness.

_Debbie sat huddled in a corner, pressed into the shiny white tiles. Tears streamed down her face and stained her top. He was shaking her, yelling at her to stop. She didn't hear his words. There was no sobbing. It was as though someone had pressed 'mute'._

_He slapped her. She jerked back. Her pretty little teeth sliced easily through her lip. Another slap. That one was going to leave a mark. He was going for thirds._

_Only, it wasn't Debbie anymore. The little boy backed into the cold hard wall, shaking his head, frantically brushing the tears from his cheeks. He hadn't meant to scream or say any of those things he said. It was a bad dream. He was afraid._

_But it was done now._

_He didn't want to go there again. The dark scared him. The cold hurt him. The voices hurt him more._

_They dragged him kicking and screaming. They said it was for his own good. The Lord protected his children._

_The Lord's house was so very dark. His special room was darker. They locked the door and left him there. They prayed he would be better in the morning. He never was._

_The voices pretended like they weren't there at first. They liked their little games. Soon they would come a-slithering._

_Debbie threw herself hard on the tile floor, smacking her cheek bone hard._

_The voices got inside his head. They told him things he didn't want to hear. They showed him things he didn't want to see. They made him do things he didn't want to do. And they laughed. How they laughed._

Debbie screamed inside her head and awoke. Her heart was racing faster than the zebra who wanted to be a horse; she shook horribly. The dream had seeped away into the dark. She was grasping at stars, millions upon millions of light years away, dead or alive nobody knows. She came up blank.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

Cox sat in his lounge with the lights turned out. He should have been sleeping. He wasn't sleepy. A tiny cassette player sat on the coffee table. Sounds of the ocean spilled into the darkness, seeping into the shadows and dusty places he had thought forgotten.

The dark didn't scare him any more. He always told himself this. His eyes gazed into the darkness but didn't see. Where he was, the voices couldn't follow, never made it through. They always got lost. He had made it so.

He wondered if he had really been losing all the time he had thought he was winning. He almost didn't make it back himself. And every night it was a little harder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cures for insomnia**

by planet p

xxx

**Disclaimer**

I don't own 'the Pretender' or any of its characters.

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**Handle with care**

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Debbie turned left and headed for Cox's office. She supposed she should talk to him before the debrief, for clarification purposes.

Ella Fitzgerald was playing loudly through the door that stood slightly a jar.

Debbie frowned and gave the doorframe a quick knock. She was about to push the door open and go inside when Lyle came around the corner and called out to her.

"Hey, lab-tech Barbie?"

The young woman rolled her eyes, slouching, hand on her hip.

Lyle shook his head slightly. "Uh-ah."

Debbie shot him a condescending look and turned back to the door, pushing it wide, and stepped inside. Her eyes widened at the sight before her. The office looked a total mess. And there in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, hands over his head, sat her boss. Debbie blinked and took a cautious step forward.

"I said 'no', damn it, girl!"

Debbie screamed as Lyle grabbed her about the waist and lifted her off her feet. He placed her down in the doorway and shot her a reprimanding look. "Stay." She just glared, straightening her clothes. Lyle smiled in a way that made her want to kill him. "Good girl."

Debbie backed away as he reached out to ruffle her hair as though she were some sort of animal.

He shrugged and turned back to his friend huddled in the corner like a scared rabbit. "Jules?"

Debbie spun to see who had spoken but found there was no one. Then it hit her that it must have been Lyle. She frowned, confused by the softness of his voice. She turned back to see Lyle knelt in front of his friend.

"'S me. Lyle. Jules?"

Cox didn't react. Debbie realised he was mumbling to himself.

"Jules?" Lyle tried again. He reached out a tentative hand. "Hey, Jules, look at me."

Cox suddenly ceased mumbling. His eyes snapped up to meet Lyle's. An evil smile came onto his lips.

Lyle withdrew his hand. "Leave us!"

Debbie frowned. What an odd thing to say.

"Miss Broots? Did you not hear me? Leave us."

Debbie started. She opened her mouth to object.

"Now."

The subject was not up for discussion. Debbie glowered, but did not move, defiance radiating from her dark eyes. She didn't know what was going on, but she was going to find out.

When she looked back to Cox she found he was watching her. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

"I know what you did."

Debbie blinked furiously. He was talking to her? She shook her head. Of course he knew. He had been as much a part of it as she, after all.

Cox's smile widened. "What he did."

What? Debbie backed away. What was wrong with him? She glared. The pair of them were crazy! She blinked slowly. When she opened her eyes, Lyle had her arm and was dragging her from the room. Debbie caught a last glimpse of the evil grin upon her boss's face before Lyle pulled the door shut after him.

He let go of Debbie's arm. Debbie held his gaze determinately. Lyle was the first to look away, exasperated. He shook his head. "Bloody Hell! Why is it…" he fell short momentarily.

Debbie observed the way he took deep breaths, watching the marble floor as though he expected it to open up and swallow him any moment now.

"Shit!"

The young lab-tech started.

Lyle smacked a hand to his head. Turning to the wall, he rested his forehead upon its cold surface. He looked a little ill.

"L-"

Lyle smacked his head into the wall, cursing inaudibly under his breath. "Don't! Speak!"

"L-"

"I said 'don't'!"

Debbie frowned, frustrated.

Lyle hit his head into the wall again. "Damn it! First Parker, then the rat, and now this! God!"

Debbie opened her mouth.

"Shut! Up!"

"I didn't s-"

Lyle moaned. "Not you!" He stepped away from the wall and spun around. "Look, girlie, just scram. Run along and play little bo peep or something. This is grown-up business."

Smack! Lyle stumbled back, rubbing his cheek, confused. Debbie raised her hand for seconds. She let her hand fall free. "Go to Hell!" she shot in a final voice. Turning on her heel, she walked off.

"Tah." Lyle sighed, rolling his eyes, and waited until she was out of sight before turning back to the door unenthusiastically.


	3. Chapter 3

**Cures for insomnia**

by planet p

xxx

**Disclaimer**

I don't own 'the Pretender' or any of its characters.

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**Wonderful Life**

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Debbie sat with her back straight and her right leg crossed over her left, hands cupped and placed neatly in her lap.

"And I am correct in saying the boy trusted both yourself and Dr. Cox?"

Debbie nodded patiently, trying to refrain from looking across at her supervisor who sat to her right. "That is correct, sir. Well enough as one would trust new acquaintances."

"Very well." Mr. Parker smiled grimly and turned to Cox with a question, but Debbie wasn't hearing the words, she was just seeing the lips move with no sound coming out. Her head spun horribly, her stomach tumbling as though she were about to be sick. Taking steady breaths, she forced herself to remain calm. That would be what Sydney would tell her. 'Deep breaths, little one, deep breaths. It's all going to be okay. I'm going to make it better for you, but you have to say the words, you have to talk to me.' Debbie bit down on her bottom lip as she felt it tremble, tears welling up in her blue eyes.

xxx

_Debbie hurried down the hall, toward Sydney's office, trying to keep her strides even, to keep from running. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, but she scarcely cared. She couldn't think. Left or right. Her heart was beating a war chant in her tiny chest as if it wanted to get out, as if it wanted to break free. Shaking her head, she shrugged as though to pull away from the invisible bonds holding her in her state of turmoil, and chose left._

_She brushed her palms frantically across her cheeks, smudging silvery blue eyeliner and kohl down her face. Her mind was racing. Playing over and over and over. 'I need Sydney'._

_Coming upon the door to the psychiatrist's office, she reached out her hands for the doorknob and found the room locked. "No." She kicked the door violently. She couldn't have this now. She needed to speak to Sydney. She needed him to tell her it would all be alright even though she knew it could never be alright again. She needed to believe in make-believe and she needed someone to hug her and say 'I love you, no matter what'._

"_Miss? Miss, I'm afraid Dr. Green is away at current. You'll have to see about rescheduling your appointment for another time."_

_Debbie turned suddenly, spinning toward the voice, face in her hands, turned down toward the marble floor as though in some small effort to conceal her shameful tears._

_Tucker stared back at his daughter, momentarily shocked. "Beedie? Debbie, are you okay?"_

_Debbie nodded, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and sniffing as fresh tears welled up in her eyes and flooded down her cheeks. "I want Sydney."_

_The tech frowned sadly and moved toward the young woman, taking her in his arms. "Oh, honey, it's me. It's your dad. I'm here. I'm here now."_

_Debbie sniffed, fighting to control the sobs threatening to break free, and allowed her father to show her into Parker's office where he appeared to be working, Parker's computer having a higher security clearance than the ones in the Tech Space._

_Tucked showed his daughter to a seat and knelt down by her side, offering her the tissue box from Parker's desk._

_Debbie whispered a hurried "thanks", her overlarge eyes rested on the empty seat behind the desk. Wherever Sydney had gone, it appeared Parker had gone with him._

"_Honey, Daddy's here now. Please tell me what's wrong."_

_Debbie shook her head suddenly and made to leave her seat. Tucker squeezed her hand comfortingly._

"_Beedie, it's okay. I'm here." He smiled encouragingly before his expression turned suddenly to horror. "Oh God, Beedie, did someone hurt you?"_

_Debbie pulled out another wad of tissues and shook her head._

_Tucker shook his own head frantically, in response. "Beedie, you have to tell Daddy if someone hurt you. He won't let the bad person hurt you again, but you have to tell him first. Beedie, please tell Daddy who hurt you. He'll make them pay. I'll make them pay, Beedie."_

_Debbie sniffed, shaking her head miserably. "Nobody hurt me, Dad. My field assignment was Recruitment." The sound of those words spoken out loud sounded like the hammering of a nail in her coffin. She felt his grip on her hand loosen._

"_Recrui- What are you saying, Beedie? No-nobody hurt you? This-this is ab- You-you-"_

_Debbie couldn't look him in the eye; instead she focused on the red nail polish on her fingernails. "I helped the Centre kidnap an innocent child from his mother."_

_Tucker blinked, almost stupidly. Debbie waited with held breath. Shaking his head, the tech stood and turned to Parker's desk. When he spoke, his voice was colourless. "Look, I can't be hearing this right now. I just can't." He shook his head again, as though to clear his mind. "I-I have things to do. I have to go now. I have to go to work. I-I'll be… in my Tech Space." Moving around Parker's desk, he retrieved a disk from the drive and swept out without another word._

_Debbie watched the empty doorway for an indefinable amount of time, sure she was hallucinating. She was eventually brought back to reality by the beeping of her mobile. Ten o'clock. She had set it to remind her of her debrief. Unnoticed tears had welled up in her eyes, and now fell into her lap as she sobbed wretchedly. She imagined her make-up must look horrific. She would have to fix that prior to the debrief._

xxx

Debbie's head snapped around to face Mr. Parker as he questioned her supervisor, the pain of her father's betrayal stinging like a thorn in her heart. She watched on with empty eyes.

xxx

"I am, as of this moment, reassigning both of you to the Pretender project. You are to liaise with Lyle for the duration of the boy's training."

Debbie blinked, a sudden irrational fear striking her. Lyle had been given charge of Kim? She leant forward, addressing Mr. Parker. "Sir, are we not to liaise with a psychiatrist also?"

Mr. Parker frowned; his eyes momentarily darting to Cox. "As I said earlier, you are to liaise with Lyle. Lyle," he sighed, as though he found it hard to comprehend himself, "is a trained psychologist."

Debbie simply gaped; shocked, confused and curious all at the same time.

Mr. Parker cleared his throat and nodded to the door. "This meeting is dismissed. I suggest you all get back to work."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Debbie wandered down the hall aimlessly, her eyes glazed over. She shivered suddenly at the thought that the next time she saw Kim he wouldn't recognise her. He would surely have been re-educated and the thought made the sickness in her stomach worsen.

Spinning back abruptly, she noted Cox watching her. "Lyle? I think I'm going crazy! Did he say Lyle?"

Cox nodded. "Yup." He sighed heavily.

Debbie sniffed, listening absently to the sound of workers busily going about their day. "Y-you okay?"

Cox turned away from the window, frowning. "Okay?" he asked in a questioning manner.

Debbie blushed slightly. "I-I just thought may-maybe you- Th-this morning…" she fell short, wishing she could just run away and hide for a very long time.

His eyes dropped to the marble floor. "Oh, um, yeah, that…" He smiled grimly to himself, and looked up again, meeting the young woman's eyes. "Yup. I'm good. All's well in the land of Frankie."

Debbie smiled nervously and scratched the side of her face in excuse to look away. "I'm glad…"

xxx

"What-what are we doing?" Debbie asked when she realised they had been standing in the middle of the hall for the better part of five minutes without speaking at all, just gazing at some inconsequential spot on the wall or point on the horizon.

"We-" Cox smiled and shook his head. "You know what? I really have no idea."

Debbie smiled also. "I guess that means we're officially InDel?"

Cox nodded thoughtfully. "Yup." Sighing, he shuddered. "Gloomy."

After some thought, Debbie pointed down the hall. "We should go see Lyle."

"Cheerio, here we go, on our way."

Debbie bit her lip to keep from laughing and gazed at the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cures for insomnia** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

**Author's Notes** The last time this was updated was in 2008, though I'm sure I deleted that chapter later and now I'm sure I've lost it – clever me – but I thought I'd give a go at writing a fourth chapter to this, so we'll see how it goes…

On with the Author's Notes, this is obviously AU, and I've rated it at M, though some things might have changed a little – as I've said before, we'll see how it goes – and don't forget to review; I'd really love any feedback at all.

* * *

As they walked in silence to Lyle's office, Debbie shooting him the occasional not altogether unpleasant glance, Cox thought about what had happened earlier that day and had to fight extraordinarily hard not to shiver outright when he thought of Debbie being there – with _that_!

He could not even begin to think what might have happened had Lyle not turned up.

As a boy, he'd thought that the memories and feelings had just been particularly vivid dreams, and when the memories and feelings came to him in his waking hours, he'd thought that he must just have been remembering the bad dreams they had come from. Later, he'd learnt that the memories and feelings were more than just invented fantasies – night terrors – he'd learnt that they could hurt him – and that they could hurt others too!

Lyle had once told him that he thought he'd created _something_ – a personality? – around the memories and feelings – but Cox didn't believe that, because he knew that whatever it was – wherever the memories and feelings came from, whosever's they were – that it was a monster! He was a doctor! And contrary to most people's thoughts and beliefs about him – including his parents' – he'd become a doctor to help people! But helping people was the farthest thing from that – what ever it was – thing's mind!

It was full of anger and pain and revenge – Lyle always said it was frightened, said it as though he should somehow care, whether or not it was a part of him – and he wanted nothing to do with it, but for it to be gone!

He always told Lyle that he didn't know what he was talking about – he wasn't a real psychologist, after all – but Lyle only replied that he knew more about it than he thought.

He might have been more psycho than anything remotely resembling a psychologist, but Lyle had been the one to secure him a job in the Renewal Wing following his demotion and forced transfer from the African branch, and he didn't think it would go down well if he suddenly decided to inform the Chairman that Lyle was not a psychologist at all – though he had had his fair share of psychologists and psychiatrists alike – and that he was, in fact, a tech, much like Tucker Broots.

And if he wasn't bothered enough by the prospect of losing his job, or his life, if he did something to really upset Lyle, he was bothered by the fact that Lyle had just had to take one look at him to know exactly what he was – and that he possessed the anomaly that the Center found so precious, and in a form thus far unexploited by the Center's Blue Cove branch.

Before he'd met Lyle, he'd always denied what he was – to himself, as much as to others. If he'd really been anything _special_, if he'd really been _gifted_, then why hadn't he been able to save his mother – his real mother – or – fourteen years later – his little sister?

And then Lyle had told him that he could help him – help him keep his job, and help him help people. At the time, he'd just been thinking of keeping his job; he hadn't thought that Lyle would want something in return. Until Brigitte.

Until Brigitte's death, he hadn't thought that Lyle had had any feelings at all – he'd believed everything he'd ever been told about Lyle – but after Brigitte's death, he'd realised that maybe Lyle was fucked up – maybe even more fucked up than any of them realised – but even so, he still had feelings – and he never wanted to make him that upset again!

He didn't know how Lyle had known what he was, let alone anything about anyone else who was the same – his little sister had been, he remembered, but still it was strange to think that there were others, alive – though he often supposed that Lyle might have had his blood analysed, or that he might have come across it when the Blue Cove branch had had his blood analysed and thought that he'd caught his first real in with someone who might not have known of his reputation as the lunatic everyone quite made out – himself included – he was!

Though even if he'd come across his blood work, as Cox knew he must have had, to have covered it up for him – and his false papers of how well he'd gone in high school that had got him into medical school – that did not even explain how Lyle had known he was a Healer.

Cox, himself, hadn't even really known he was one himself – at least, not the name – though he often supposed that Lyle's ready access to Angelo, an Empath relegated to Raines's care, might have helped considerably – though if that was so, Angelo had not told Raines, or, at least, Raines had made a good show of acting as though he hadn't.

Of course, Raines knew now that he was a Healer – after Lyle had told him – and Cox knew, too, that Raines was a Healer also. The one thing that Lyle had asked of him – the one thing in exchange for his life and his job – was that he stop denying what he was, and he could only – begrudgingly – agree.

But that did not cover his own private demon, who, it seemed, was hell bent on destroying his life and his job when he had fallen short of doing so himself.

As they rounded the corner into the corridor in which he knew Lyle's office to be situated, Cox glanced across at the young woman walking beside him, just in time to notice the mask of barely concealed fury she'd slipped over her face, and was warmed to know that he would not be facing Lyle alone.

* * *

"You've been assigned Kim!" Debbie shouted, the moment the door was opened to allow them entry.

"My, she's lovely," Lyle commented casually to Cox, and shut the office door after the pair.

Cox watched Debbie's face redden in anger.

"You've a lovely voice, my dear," Lyle told her, turning back from the door. "Lovely, loud voice." He gestured across the room. "Take a seat."

Debbie narrowed her eyes at him, but did not otherwise move.

Lyle shrugged and returned to his desk.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?" Debbie bellowed from across the room, and Cox, standing beside her, regretted not moving sooner, as soon as his ears started to ring.

"Take a seat, Miss Broots, and we'll come to that, I'm sure," Lyle told her calmly. "If not, if you're going to stand there and scream at me from halfway across the room, I'm afraid I'll have to have you removed and this meeting will have to be postponed until such time as you are fit…" He tossed his head. "Oh, you know the rest!"

Debbie crossed her arms angrily and stalked across the room toward the chairs arranged in front of Lyle's desk.

Cox followed her and took the only other seat on his side of the desk, the one next to the one Debbie was seated in.

"I bet you're not even a real psychologist!" Debbie scowled, once Lyle had taken a seat also, across the desk.

Lyle smiled at her pleasantly.

"I don't suppose I should expect Kim to remember me?" Debbie growled, face red with anger.

"I don't know," Lyle replied. "I hear Pretenders have excellent memories."

Cox wondered if Lyle was being deliberately ignorant on purpose, to further aggravate Debbie, or if he just didn't get what Debbie was implying, though he strongly suspected the former.

Debbie leapt out of her chair, eyes wide, and stared madly at Lyle, barely restraining herself from bringing both of her fists down on the table between them. "ARE YOU SOME SORT OF AN IMBECILE?" she shouted.

"Might I phone a friend?" Lyle asked pleasantly, with a smile, and glanced at the telephone sitting on his desk.

Debbie stared at him for a full five seconds, before she burst into horrible, hysterical laughter.

Cox shot Lyle an annoyed, uncomfortable look, and stood up, but before he could do so much as reach across to touch her arm, Debbie sat right back down in her chair with a thud and sat glaring at Lyle, leaving Cox feeling confused and embarrassed before he, too, quickly retook his seat.

"If what you are asking, Miss Broots, is whether or not Kim has been re-educated, my answer to both yourself and Dr. Cox is no," Lyle said, making no attempt to make any sort of eye contact with Cox. "Neither the Tower nor myself felt that re-education would be in the best interest of fostering Kim's abilities, if that is what we are to be calling it." He sighed. "Has that answered your question, Miss Broots?"

Cox didn't think that it would be pertinent for him to respond – Lyle had, after all, addressed Debbie and not he – and decided that he would just have to wait to see what Debbie's answer would be.

"I thought you were one of the Center's _special children_ too?" Debbie said, suddenly much more calm than before, and before he could stop himself, Cox had half turned and glanced at her, though she was staring at Lyle and didn't notice.

"I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else," Lyle replied. "I was never at the Center as a child."

Debbie smiled, which for some reason irritated Cox – he didn't like Debbie smiling at Lyle that way; in his experience girls who smiled at Lyle usually ended up dead – though he said nothing. "I don't trust you," Debbie told Lyle, menacingly pleasant.

"Oh, to be clear, Miss Broots, I don't trust you either," Lyle replied, his tone turning serious. "Cute and plush, you may be, but clever – no! To be honest, I have a hard time believing how you were appointed this job in the first place. You're not intelligent, and you're certainly not smart, and the way you're going, the only thing you're going to land yourself – far from a promotion, I assure you, or even, for that matter, an ounce of respect – is a cemetery plot! You need to _think_ before you open your mouth, Miss Broots!"

Across the desk from him, Debbie's eyes glinted, the red slowly leaching from her face, and Cox was scared that she would start crying, and – irrationally – that he would be able to do nothing to comfort her in front of Lyle.

"But I like you," Lyle finished, smiling suddenly. "You're funny!"

Cox wanted to stand up and slap Lyle, but then he noticed that Debbie was shaking and decided that if he did that Debbie probably _would_ start crying – and then Lyle would have won.

"You have no authority when it comes to Kim's wellbeing, nor his training," Debbie said in a brittle voice, "and you certainly have no influence over the Tower, Mr. Lyle, and if you are going to delude yourself or Dr. Cox and myself, I suggest you sit down and have a long, hard think about your future as an employee of this corporation."

"She's so funny!" Lyle told Cox cheerily, and stood up and walked around his desk and stopped in front of Debbie's chair.

Cox wanted to move – to maybe get up and get in between Lyle and Debbie – but he couldn't even move his mouth enough to say anything.

"Up you get, my dear," Lyle said with a smile.

Debbie did not move at all, except to shake – she could not stop herself from shaking – and remained staring straight ahead of her.

Cox was finally able to make himself move and jumped to his feet. "Lyle-" he began, but was cut off by a sharp glance from Lyle.

"Out," Lyle told him, voice firm but devoid of any emotion.

"I won't-!" Cox started hotly.

"Get out!" Lyle shouted, without moving from Debbie's side.

Cox watched Debbie jolt in her chair, and turned and walked away across the room toward the door, wondering what he was going to tell Debbie's father, or Parker, and when he reached the door he pulled it open and stepped out of the office, into the corridor, and shut the door after himself, wondering if, if he wanted it enough, he could summon the thing inside him he hated almost as much as he hated himself, and hope it wouldn't hurt Debbie along with Lyle.

* * *

Once the door had shut, Lyle returned his attention to Debbie, shivering in her chair and staring at nothing in front of her. "I said, 'Up you get,'" he told her, and when she did not react, took one of her arms and yanked her to her feet, but did not stop her when she pulled away from him and reeled sharply backward.

He stepped toward her and she took a step backward, so he kept walking toward her until there was nowhere else for her to walk and the wall came up against her back, and the realisation that she was trapped dawned in her eyes and on her face and she raised her hands to defend herself, which he took and held tightly.

He knew that her wrists hurt, he was holding them that tightly, and she glared at him, pale-faced; frightened but still angered. "You're going to stop saying things like that," he told her. "You're going to do as you're told. From now on, you're going to do exactly as you are asked or told, no mistakes, only what the job calls for, no more, because if you don't – that baby's as good as dead."

He released her wrists, white now like her face, and took her arm and walked her toward the door, then let go of her arm.

"Good day, Miss Broots," he told her, and opened the door for her to leave.

* * *

Outside Lyle's office, all Debbie could think was that she wanted to run – her brain, her legs, her stomach, were all telling her to run – but then she saw Cox, moving toward her now, concern pinching his face, making it somehow paler, and – impossibly – making his pale blue eyes paler too.

Staring at him, Debbie shook from head to foot, and then she remembered what Lyle had said, and realised that he had not been talking about Kim.

* * *

_Too off the wall? __The tone is very different from the previous chapter, which is annoying me, so just tell me if you think I should delete it and I'll do that._

_P.S.: The new_ New Story_ feature is scary!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Cures for insomnia** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

He was mad! Debbie was convinced of it. And Cox? Was Cox just as mad? Cox, at least, had been concerned, though his concern had not stretched so far as to his remaining in the room when Lyle had told him to leave.

Debbie frowned, thinking hard as she sat in the toilet cubicle, wanting to cry and feeling sick to her stomach.

She should have gone to Sydney, she knew, or Parker – she could not go to her father, he'd made that more than clear – but the thought of the baby Lyle had mentioned kept stopping her. She could hardly move at all for that thought.

She'd never slept with anyone before that night with Wyatt – with Cox – which made it all the more ridiculous that Lyle thought that she was pregnant.

It had been weeks ago now. She wondered if that was enough time to be able to tell if someone was pregnant if they really were, but more likely Lyle was just hoping that she would _get_ pregnant, so that he would continue to have something over her – so that he would continue to have her co-operation!

Which didn't really make sense with why he cared about some baby – her unborn baby? – but she supposed he'd have to be seen to seem to care, at least in her eyes, or else she would know – just as surely as he knew – how fucking mad he really was!

She was in half a mind to tell him just what she thought of him and his schemes to manipulate her, when she was struck with the sickening thought that maybe he had _arranged_ for her to _get_ pregnant, like, say, with a deranged Sweeper he knew or who worked for him, and she wanted to be sick, and she started to sob.

* * *

Cox didn't believe Debbie when she'd said that she was okay. "I'm okay." That's what she'd said. But he'd been able to tell, by looking at her – just by looking at her face, really – that she wasn't okay at all, that she was as far from okay that anyone could be.

At first, he'd thought of Parker, then he'd thought of Sam. He knew that Sam cared about Debbie – he'd once minded her; she'd beat him at checkers several times over – and that he'd remain professional and get the job done.

He knew that Debbie wasn't a baby anymore – wasn't fourteen – but he wasn't willing to let Debbie become like all of the other girls Lyle had killed – the ones whose bodies had been found and the ones who hadn't.

He remembered – as if he could ever forget – that his little sister's body had never been found.

He could have gone to Raines, he supposed, but Raines had made Lyle the way he was – as much as one could make anyone change – which he considered a success, just as he'd considered Kyle a success, and Lyle and Kyle had both been as mad as each other – Kyle had just been more open about it, Cox supposed – so he didn't think it would be much help at all to go to Raines and tell him that his _success story_ was out of line – and completely off the beam, so long as they were being completely honest.

All he asked, when he found Sam, was that he keep as much as an eye out as was possible without raising suspicion, and that the eye that he was keeping out was focussed on Debbie Broots.

* * *

Debbie stared at the test in her hands and wanted to throw up. It was negative. She wasn't pregnant. She supposed she should have been pleased, she hadn't got herself pregnant her first time, but she was frightened, and she just wanted to be sick.

And then she thought of how Lyle had sent Cox – who he was proposing the father of her baby – out of the room. _But, of course, he'd sent him out,_ she thought, because he was a doctor and he would have picked straight away that she wasn't pregnant, that she had none of the symptoms that someone who was pregnant exhibited, or, at the very least, he would have been able to do a test – just like she'd done herself – to confirm whether or not she really was pregnant, whether or not to take Lyle seriously or not.

At that moment, she wished she had a gun. At that moment, she wished she could tell Parker.

* * *

She didn't tell Parker. She couldn't! Instead, she told Sydney. She knew that Sydney would tell her to lodge a formal complaint against Lyle – and then he'd hand her the right form from somewhere – and he'd help her fill in the form and walk with her to the place where it was lodged, and then she'd feel much better. But that was not what Sydney did at all.

But he did give her his gun, which she almost dropped out of principle. She hadn't known that Sydney had had a gun.

She decided – for some reason – not to tell him that it was Cox who she'd slept with.

* * *

She hadn't yet been allowed to see Kim, though Mr. Parker had assured Cox and she that it would be soon.

She didn't care for Mr. Parker's words, a promise from him was just as good as a lie, she'd leant that from everything Parker had ever told her about her father.

She didn't tell Cox that she thought that they should consult Lyle as to the matter of access to Kim, but decided to consult Lyle as to a matter of her own.

She wasn't going to allow him – or anyone else – to push her around the way she had allowed herself to be pushed into stealing Kim from Nadine, and if Lyle thought that he was someone, just because he could push scared girls around, then he was badly mistaken.

* * *

She hadn't meant to let him know that she'd had a gun, but as soon as she'd stepped into his office and he'd shut the door, it had just sort of happened, and she couldn't stop it.

In any case, he hadn't been surprised in the least, as though people pointing guns at him was a regular occurrence, but Debbie had been surprised that he hadn't been surprised, in fact, she'd been counting on his surprise.

"You're not about to tell me that it's – ah? – sonic, are you?" he asked, slightly amused, and if she'd known how to shoot, Debbie would have shot him then.

"You're a liar!" she hissed.

"So I hear," Lyle replied. "For the books, what is it that I am to have lied about, Miss Broots?"

"I'm not pregnant, scumbag!" Debbie growled, keeping the gun firmly trained on his chest – just like they always told you in all the television shows. "And you can drop the fucking trumped up sophisticated _psychologist_ bullshit!"

"But we are so sophisticated, ourselves, aren't we?" Lyle commented casually, not in the least phased other than the slight hint of delicateness about his tone, as though to imply exactly the opposite of his words.

Debbie scowled.

"It's not endearing, my dear," Lyle told her, in the accent she'd first heard him talk in. He smiled. "What you fail to understand, my dear, is that Catherine didn't work as hard as she did – risk life and limb – to have you throw all of her efforts in her face!"

Debbie was silent for a moment – only a moment – and then she burst into laughter.

"I don't think we're quite on the same keel here, my dear," Lyle told her. "You are a Pretender. The Center acquires Pretenders. Try to have some wits about you."

Debbie stared at him and laughed harder. "I think we can dispense of the 'my dear' bullshit!" Debbie told him, when she'd finally stopped laughing.

"I think you should listen to what I am telling you," Lyle replied, more annoyed than not now.

"I think I would know if I was a Pretender!" Debbie growled.

"Knowing is not understanding and understanding is not knowing, Miss Broots," Lyle told her. "To be honest, I don't think you _would_ know. I don't know that I know what there is to know myself. But there is one thing that I know," he turned away from her – as though the gun in her hand meant nothing at all – and walked to a filing cabinet. After a few moments, he turned back to her and walked over and handed her a photograph. "And that is that you look far too much like your mother to be so comfortable, Miss Broots!"

Debbie looked at the photograph – and found herself staring into the face of her mother, only she was much younger than Debbie had ever seen her, about Debbie's own age when she had first moved to Blue Cove.

For a second, she almost couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? Should she run? _No, I'm through with running and cowering,_ she thought defiantly. _I'll never run again!_

Armed with that knowledge and a new determination, she did what she didn't think she would – let alone could – ever do, and shot Lyle.

* * *

_Oh, lame. *shudders at ending*_

_Lyle is so Richard, and he doesn't even know it! I just hope he doesn't start inviting himself into other people's houses too... OMG! And the rest...! What? *g*_

_Ignore earlier comment, nobody knows who Richard is. Sorry, Richard!_

_I'm going to stop writing now __for two reasons. Because a) I don't know what's going to happen next, and b) I don't know whether anyone thinks I should continue or not._

_Feedback would be terrific!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Cures for insomnia** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

_

* * *

_

_Two weeks later_

Following his unavailability, a woman named Parish Dade had been instated to take Lyle's place as Kim's handler. Dade was a psychiatrist who'd worked for the Center in the past – mainly for their smaller, auxiliary branches – and was a specialist in Empathy. Through her own admission, she had never worked with a Pretender before, and was eager of the prospect.

Debbie could not find herself any more approving of the candidate than she had been of Lyle, though she did not think it would be a wise move to shoot Dade also, as it had all been covered up quite successfully by Sam of her involvement in Lyle's shooting, which was put down to a suicide attempt, which the family obviously had quite a history of, as Debbie was told quite chattily one day by a cafeteria worker – whom everyone said were unfriendly – in the women's bathroom on SL-1.

Once the woman had left, Debbie was finally left alone to throw up, and, three days later, was told by her female doctor – outside of the Center – that she was not in fact suffering from a stomach upset of any sort, but was pregnant.

To which she promptly responded by throwing up, and then – her head splitting with the effort of throwing up – wishing she could shoot Lyle properly, so he would die this time, but unfortunately she did not have the proper access to be on SL-9.

Then she cried for a whole week, but, of course, never in company.

* * *

_Five months later_

The room he woke up in was white, though, oddly, the linen was pale green, which, quite aside from being an improvement on white, was a little bit better because green was his favourite colour, but which made him think that maybe he was in a hospital – and he did not like hospitals – or a clinic, in the very least, which he maybe didn't like even more.

He was trying his best to remain calm – collected – when he realised that the string of wooden beads he usually wore on his right wrist were in fact no longer there, and there was a needle in his arm, connected to a length of plastic tubing, which was in turn connected to a drip.

He closed his eyes and told himself that the best thing to do was to remain calm – that was always the best thing to do, and it was no different in this circumstance than any other circumstance. He'd been in hospitals before, and he hadn't freaked out then – well, not in all of them – so there was absolutely no reason to do so now, in fact, there was every reason not to.

_Calm and alert_, he reminded himself. If he wasn't calm, he wouldn't be alert. And as it was, as of now, he had no idea where he was, or why he was where he was – wherever that was, or might turn out to be.

He opened his eyes and looked at the drip, but then he started counting the drips, and then he started calculating the frequency with which the drips fell and were deposited along the tubing into the vein in his arm, but he was counting the drips and calculating the frequency at the same time, and then he started to worry that he didn't have his beads – and why didn't he have his beads – and he started to become tired.

He ripped the needle out of his arm – and smacked a hand over his mouth – because it hurt, obviously, and then he started to cry because his beads were missing, and he didn't like hospitals or clinics, and – seriously – he was obviously even more of a mutant than usual because he was missing his thumb on his left hand – and that was his dominant hand, and, damn it, if he really was a mutant, then shouldn't he have been able to grow it back!

He put his hand over his face and wished he wasn't in any stupid hospital – or clinic, or whatever it was – and wished he had his beads. He couldn't even think properly without his beads! And… and… he couldn't breathe…!

"Stop being a cry baby!" he told himself in an upset voice, but it was a few moments before he actually stopped crying, because he'd just realised that something was very wrong and he was very scared – and it wasn't just scared-of-the-scary-dark scared, it was really-scary scared!

He took his hands away from his face and wiped them on his hospital gown, and tried to sit up, and fell off the bed and onto the floor, and narrowed his eyes at the ceiling in a glare.

After that, he quickly established several things, he was on antibiotics – and even if they weren't the ones you could taste, he could imagine that they tasted like those horrible fake cherry-tasting antibiotics he'd had before – his eyes were really sore – and not _just_ from crying, or the lights, or the walls or the ceiling – and he needed to find a mirror, but not because he was afraid he was a vampire, because then he would have been able to grow his thumb back, because that's what vampires did, or, at least, that's what they did in the movies, or so he'd heard, because he'd never actually been to a movie theatre, not even a drive-in movie theatre, which he'd seen once in the desert, but it hadn't been working any more, so maybe that didn't count, but it had made him really sad, but then he'd started thinking about lollipops.

Resolving to find a mirror, and to stop thinking about lollipops – again, which he didn't even like, or at least didn't think he did, because he wasn't allowed sweets, because he was diabetic – he carefully sat up, and even though he felt dizzy, he pushed himself to his feet and quickly stumbled across the room to the door, before he fell on the floor again, and realised that the door was locked – and he was locked in – by some sort of keypad.

In the end, the keypad wasn't a problem, because he got the combination right the first time, but then he had to pull the door open, and then the door was open, and there was nothing in front of him but a lot of floor, which he promptly found himself lying on again, partly because he'd been dizzy, and partly because he was tired, and sick, and his muscles weren't working properly to keep him standing up.

He sat up, deciding that whoever it was – wherever he was – they weren't very interested in keeping their patients in their rooms – not really, in any case – or they just didn't get patients who weren't exactly normal, or, in other words, kind of mutanty.

He'd just made it to the corridor wall, and was trying to stand up, when he realised that he was going to have one of his fits, and then, when that was over, realised that, whatever he was on, that it wasn't just antibiotics, and it was definitely mutant medication, and he felt like throwing up.

* * *

He was sick in the toilet, and then he just wanted to lie on the floor for a very long time, and his arm hurt where he'd been leaning on the wall to heavily for support when he'd been walking, but there wasn't a mirror on the ceiling, and he'd just realised where he was, because he'd been here before – when he'd been born.

He was in Blue Cove, Delaware.

Where his sister was!

And Dr. Raines, and Timmy, who was really Angelo – well, had been 'made' into Angelo – and Kyle. And Sydney and Jarod, of course.

He lifted himself up off the floor and threw up again, and wondered if it was just because he was excited, or if his antibiotics hadn't been working as well as they had been anticipated, and what exactly he was throwing up.

* * *

When he'd finally finished puking, and was shaking instead, he half-pushed, half-pulled himself to his feet and decided that now was as good a time as any to use the basin – and wash his mouth out, which really hurt – and the mirror.

Except when he turned around, and walked up to the mirror, almost too slowly, and leant over the basin, and smacked his head into the mirror, because he hadn't been paying attention, it wasn't himself he found staring back at him, but someone completely different – and screamed!

Argh! Why did he look like _him_?

He smacked his head into the mirror again and forced himself – glaring at himself in the mirror – not to cry, not to even dare!

* * *

The bathroom door opened, and a man in his early to middle forties strode in, wearing a white coat – identification card clasped to his coat – and, perhaps strangely, an off-white scarf at his neck and a white pin that almost looked like a plus sign, or maybe a cross.

"Oh, thank God!" the man exclaimed in a Welsh accent.

_Tower doctor_, Bobby thought. The white pin wasn't a plus sign or a cross at all, it was the Center's insignia. He giggled, realising that he was probably in a lot of trouble, for leaving his room, or something else.

The Tower doctor sighed heavily and relaxed. "How are you feeling? You're looking a bit pale."

Bobby giggled.

The Tower doctor sighed and shook his head, then he walked across the room and held the door open, but did not go through it.

* * *

Bobby was thinking about the desert, and all of the little animals that lived in the desert, and then he started thinking about the plants too, when his sister walked in, and, of course, he knew exactly when she'd walk in, because he could feel her, so he'd pretended to be thinking about something – because he hadn't expected his sister to turn up, and not with Sydney, who made him want to giggle, though, he conceded, he'd have to refrain – except the woman who walked into his room didn't look anything like his sister at all, instead she looked like their mother – his biological mother – Catherine.

"Feeling better, I see," his sister declared, with something close to glee, which frightened him a little bit, and he wasn't really feeling better, maybe even he was feeling worse, and his sister didn't sound at all how he remembered her to sound, and Sydney was older than he remembered, though, he conceded, so was he.

For a moment, he focussed his attention on a fight that had just broken out on SL-8 – a floor above the floor he was on – between a patient and a nurse, but realised that he was probably only doing so to avoid conversation, and refocussed his attention on his sister – who liked to be called Miss Parker, and was sometimes called Parker by those close to her, but never by her first name – and Sydney.

"You must be seeing something that I'm not seeing," he replied, but decided, by Sydney's frown, that he hadn't got the voice quite right, but the medication he was on was making it very hard to think clearly and to feel what was closer to what he should sound like, or even to remember what he – or Lyle, as he'd apparently taken to calling himself, from all accounts so far – sounded like.

Parker's eyes flashed and she smiled and turned around and walked out.

Sydney frowned a bit more and followed her out.

Bobby stared at the hospital blanket for a while. It was strange, because he knew his sister, and she knew him, and they didn't seem to like each other – at all, really – and he'd always thought that they'd be friends, if they ever met again. Or, at least, he had hoped that they would. Except… they weren't.

He frowned, and decided that maybe next time he wouldn't start off the conversation by calling her delusional… at least, not right away.

He didn't really want to call her delusional at all – he didn't know if she really was delusional or not, and even so, it wasn't polite to do so – but apparently that was just how Lyle and she talked to each other, and apparently, Sydney was fine with that too.

But at least he got to call her 'sis,' he conceded, and smiled. Next time, he would! He'd never called anyone sis before.

* * *

Much later, the sound of laughter drew his attention back to the doorway, where a young woman with auburn hair and a slight belly stood in a white lab coat. "You must be ever so pleased with yourself!" she told him airily, voice full of contempt and scorn.

"Remind me again," he said, "who are you?"

The young woman burst into strident laughter, dropping her face to the floor. Sucking in several deep breaths, and finally managing to curb her laughter, she lifted her face again. "You bastard!" she screamed and lunged at him.

And he, with the good humour he seemed to have arrived at, promptly informed her, somewhere between chatty and morbidly serious, "I don't like girls. You can't blame me for that one. It isn't mine."

Which, surprisingly, stopped her from throwing herself at him, or on him, or whatever else it had been she'd been planning on doing to him, but not from slapping him.

"And if I was ever in any doubt – _whatsoever_ – that is exactly why… I… Don't… Like… Girls!" he told her loudly. "Ow!"

"I hope you liked it!" the young woman bristled.

He made a face at her, but supposed that she was being sarcastic. "Yeah, it really brightened up my day!" he told her. "Did it do that for you too?"

The young woman growled, eyes flashing, and tried to slap him again, before he took hold of her wrist with his right hand.

"Don't get too excited now!" he told her, wondering if, in fact, he was slightly mental, or really did like girls hitting him. "Not sure it's good for the little one."

The young woman glared, and slapped him with her other hand.

"Fantastic, thank you!" he told her, smiling, and let go of her hand.

She sat down on the bed beside him, her expression becoming pained, and he frowned, and put his hand over hers and squeezed it lightly, and she almost leapt back off the mattress – pain aside – and shot him a dark look somewhere between disgusted, disturbed and deeply confused, which, of course, he realised – them being the wonderful friends they were – was only natural.

"Yep," he muttered, and let go of her hand.

She continued staring at him, but her expression, which had, before, eased a little, became strained once more.

He pretended to ignore her, and wondered why he didn't have a television in his room. It would have been quite nice to have had a television actually, and was startled out of these thoughts when she reached over and grabbed his hand.

"Just hold my hand, okay!" she told him gruffly, and looked at the mattress.

He frowned, and thought that maybe he should have just kept his hands to himself. "Jeni?"

She looked up into his face quickly, appalled, and embarrassed, a close second. "Debbie!"

"Debbie," he corrected plainly, but feeling a bit stupid – he'd even been holding her hand, and everything – "Do you mind if I ask you exactly what it is you do?" _Or what I do?_ he wanted to add, but didn't.

"You know what I do," she told him, annoyed. "And I would have thought you'd've remembered my name!"

"Hmm," he replied. "My memory's not what it used to be. Old age, that sort of tosh."

She snorted and pressed the back of her free hand over her nose. "Tosh?"

He dropped his eyes to the blanket. "Nonsense," he muttered, in explanation.

"But you do remember that I shot you, don't you?" she asked, in a sort of pompous, teasing, half-British voice.

"Oh great!" he told her, in a British accent, and glancing at her. "Oh yes, wonderful! Lovely! And what, so now you've come to finish me off, I suppose you're going to say, are you, young lady?" He leant a little closer to her. "Do I need to… ah, call for back up, so to speak?"

"I haven't come to finish you off," she told him, pushing down a smile. "I came to ask if you knew, or knew of, someone called Dade, Parish Dade?"

"Like Bond, James Bond?" he asked.

She made a face, as though to admonish him.

He winked, which was probably more of a twitch, and dropped the British accent. "Tell me again, who is he?"

"He is a she, for starters," she told him.

"Of course. She. Who is she then?"

"She is your replacement," Debbie replied.

"Excellent!" He blinked several times. "That sounds really awkward. I mustn't say that a lot. Excellent." He frowned. "And what-what do I do again?"

"You're a psychologist," she said, unimpressed.

"Actually," he told her, "I don't really mind if you shoot me again. I don't want to be a psychologist. Where's ya gun? You go' a gun?"

"No, I don't have a gun!" Debbie said, annoyed, and narrowed her eyes. "This is a medical ward."

"Medical… Yes, do shoot me. The sooner the better, really," he replied. "I hate anything medical. Medical wards, medical supplies, medical students… Anything medical really."

Debbie smiled. "Shut up," she told him. "So, do you know her or not?"

"Yes, ah… I think she, ah… She used to, ah… She's a psychiatrist, as you already know, and she's a specialist in Empathy, as you also already know – nod if I'm anywhere near the right track – she has a huge crush on Angelo, and we met in university, or should I say, college."

"She has a crush on Angelo?" Debbie asked. "That's scary. For Angelo."

Bobby smiled. What he really wanted to say was, _I don't like hospitals! Will you help me escape?_ but what he said was, "You miss him calling you Jeni, don't you? Even though it's not your real name, you miss it. But you especially miss him saying it."

Debbie looked at him and glared. "Shut up," she told him. "I don't want you repeating that to anyone else. Or I might have to shoot you again."

"If that's what you want…" he replied.

"That's what I want!" she growled, and let go off his hand and stood up. "I have to go," she told him. "I really hope you don't remember any of this. I don't know, maybe I'll have a talk to one of the young doctors, or one of the nurses, ask them to up your meds a little." She smiled. "Now you sleep tight, nice and cozy," she said, and shot him a wink, before turning and walking out of the room.

* * *

_Odd, yeah. TBC?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Cures for insomnia** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

_

* * *

_

Debbie hadn't slept well all week, and she'd just rounded a corner on SL-8, Med Space General, to be met with the sounds of someone howling. She closed her eyes and told herself that it wasn't who she thought it was.

"Are you okay?" a woman's voice asked, and Debbie opened her eyes to see a young woman in a nurse's uniform peering at her concernedly.

"Tell me that isn't Lyle," Debbie said.

"That isn't Lyle," the nurse told her.

Debbie made a face. "It is, isn't it?" she said after a while.

"Yes," the nurse replied.

Debbie sighed. "I thought he was supposed to be on SL-9," she said tiredly.

The nurse nodded. "He was. Before they transferred him up here."

"Thanks," Debbie replied, and the nurse walked off along the corridor. Just when she'd gotten up the nerve to tell Cox that she thought – no, that she knew – that the baby she was carrying was his, this was what she got!

Of course, Cox already knew that she was pregnant. Anyone who cared, or who'd taken an interest to know, knew. The one thing they didn't know was who the baby's father was, and frankly, Debbie did not think that it was anyone else's business but hers and the father's.

If Cox had harboured any suspicions, she'd never confirmed nor denied them. She'd done the right thing.

Her father was talking to her again – and was very interested to know who the unborn baby's father was, though she was not telling, she'd not even told Sydney or Parker – and work had settled down into a nice routine, despite the fact that she was still a kidnapper and possibly an accomplice to a torturer, or torturers, depending on how co-operative Kim was feeling. And she'd shot a man, with Sydney's gun, which was possibly worse, because it reflected badly upon Sydney – whether or not Sydney had given it to her and she'd shot Lyle, or Lyle had stolen it and shot himself with it – it still always looked negatively for Sydney, but she got a free pardon, due to Sam's invaluable assistance.

She took several calming breaths and pressed on to Cox's office, which wasn't far now, and tried to ignore the loud screaming and howling in the background.

* * *

It did not take long, after she'd knocked, for the door to be opened, and she found herself standing face to face with Cox. "If you've a spare moment, I'd like to have a word," she told him.

Cox frowned, and then nodded shortly. "Yes. Yes, of course," he replied, and stepped back from the door to allow her inside. "Come inside."

Debbie walked into the office, which was as freakishly ordered as she'd always imagined, and sterilely clean, save for the racoon – stuffed and posed – standing on the top of the filing cabinet.

"That's… Mika," Cox explained, blinked several times, as though annoyed at the racoon for staring, or some other such offence.

Debbie frowned.

"It means 'racoon'… or so I've been told," he explained.

Debbie nodded. "Mika the racoon." She frowned slightly. It didn't really have much of a ring to it.

"You don't think it's unspiritual, do you?" Cox asked, frowning.

Debbie shook her head. "No…"

Cox nodded shortly and glanced at the floor for a moment. "What-what is it that you wished to… discuss?" he asked, still glancing at the floor.

Debbie said nothing for a moment, still unsure whether she really wanted to tell him or not, or what, if she did, that would mean, what would happen, if anything would change, if he would get angry at her? She hadn't even told Sydney that she was planning on meeting Cox now, probably because she hadn't told Sydney that Cox was the baby's father either, which she suddenly felt stupid for not having told Sydney, or someone, at least.

She felt suddenly ill.

It wouldn't have been as bad if she'd just told someone where she was going, she told herself, anyone, even just one of the cafeteria workers, like the one who sometimes talked to her – and who'd talked to her in the bathroom that time and told her about Catherine Parker committing suicide and Parker's suicide attempt, even though Debbie had known it had all been fabricated – or one of the other lab techs, or the female nurse she'd met in the corridor moments before.

"Are you feeling alright?" Cox's voice filtered through the haze of her thoughts, and she focussed her eyes and noticed that he was no longer looking at the floor but was looking at her, and fought down the blush that she felt creeping up her neck.

"I-I'm alright," she replied, ploughing on before she could stop herself and run out of the office. "I thought it would be the appropriate gesture to inform you that you were the father of the baby I'm carrying."

"Were?" came Cox's worried reply.

"Are," Debbie rephrased, frowning, confused by his response. That he hadn't tried to deny her allegation, yet that, for four months, he hadn't so much as asked after the unborn child in question, though he'd surely known it to exist by _then_.

"Oh, I see," Cox replied. "That, ah, that seems to make sense, I-I suppose."

Debbie stared at him.

Cox blinked, frowning, watching the floor once more. "Do you need money? Is that it? Medical expenses, or whatnot? That sort of thing?" He lifted his gaze from the floor carefully and seemed to fend off a flinch upon noticing her watching him.

"No!" she replied, suddenly angry. "Like I said, I thought it would be the appropriate gesture!" Suddenly, she didn't know why she'd come at all. Why she'd though it appropriate that she inform the father of the unborn baby she was carrying that in less than four months he would be a father.

"Yes. Yes, it was," Cox told her. "It was the right thing to do. Thank you very much."

Debbie's stomach turned over. She'd just told him that they were going to have a baby, and this was how he reacted, all he cared about was some stupid formality! "Are you mad?" Debbie asked him suddenly, fully believing that he was.

Cox stared at her, his expression caught between confusion and indignation. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded hotly. "Do you want me to go to your father and confess our transgression and beg for his forgiveness? Do you want me to ask his approval that I ask you to marry me, for us to be wed?"

Debbie started laughing.

Cox stared at her as though he'd been slapped across the face.

"'Our _transgression_'!" Debbie yelled, furious. "I don't need my father's say-so to fuck someone! And I certainly don't need his fucking nod of approval to marry whomever I fucking please!"

"Alright!" Cox told her, raising his hands, palms out. "Would you kindly lower your voice, Miss Broots. I think I heard you. In fact, I think the whole floor heard you."

Debbie laughed in his face. "Fuck you!" she spat, pointing her finger at him accusingly. "And fuck your stupid racoon!" She turned around and stomped across the room toward the door and yanked it open, and slammed it after her on her way out.

* * *

She stormed out of Cox's office and headed straight for the dining hall for a bottle of water from one of the vending machines and to talk to Napea, who worked there, who she promptly told about Cox's unspiritual hobby, taxidermy.

She was so angry that she didn't even notice that Napea had had her hair cut in a new style until Napea asked her what she thought of her new haircut, smiling, and waiting anxiously for her reply.

Debbie glanced at Napea's face and her new haircut. "I like it," she replied, and smiled back at the older woman.

* * *

The two women walked to the elevators and stepped into the first elevator that opened, glad that they hadn't had to wait longer. Turning away from the keypad, Debbie noticed who else was in the elevator with them and almost laughed out loud, and then she noticed Napea, who was no longer by her side, but who'd pressed her back into the elevator doors in an effort to put as much distance as possible between herself and Lyle, who was either leaning against the wall, or listening to imaginary voices talking to him through it.

Debbie reached out a hand and touched Napea's arm in reassurance.

Lyle giggled suddenly and smacked the wall with his palm. After a moment, he seemed to notice the keypad and bit his lip, then he glanced at Debbie and smiled.

Debbie quickly stepped away from Napea and stood in front of the keypad.

Lyle pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to Napea. "Where are you going?"

Napea kept her gaze determinately on the wall opposite and didn't reply.

Lyle frowned and leant closer to her. "Are you scared of elevators?" he asked. "They're not really scary! Just if you think about them loads." He stopped talking for a moment, thinking. He reached out a hand, as though to touch her face, but then let his hand fall and turned away and shuffled back over to the spot by the wall where he'd been standing before, and slid down the wall and sat on the floor.

After a moment, he looked at Debbie.

Debbie made a face.

He made a face back at her.

She rolled her eyes and walked over to Napea. "Are you okay?" she asked, echoing the nurse she'd met earlier in the day.

Napea nodded, not taking her eyes off the wall.

"Are you sure?"

Napea nodded again.

"Okay," Debbie replied uncertainly. She glared at Lyle. "Why are you on the floor?"

Lyle pushed himself to his feet and stood up. "I'm a psychologist," he told her, "that's how psychologists talk."

Debbie laughed. "No! You know what you are? You're mad! That's what you are!"

Lyle looked at the floor. "If I'm mad," he told her, morose, "you're not supposed to tell me that. Mad people don't like to hear that they're mad. It makes them angry."

Debbie scowled.

"My daddy was a bank manager, ostensibly. My mummy cut people's hair. She was a hairdresser. Though she didn't want to be, she wanted to go to college, she wanted to learn things. And you know what I did?" He looked up from the floor. "I kill things. I killed Jimmy – and _he_ was my _friend_!" He made a face. "I don't need you to tell me that I'm mad!" he shouted.

"Don't you raise your voice to her!" Napea yelled, stepped away from the elevator doors harshly.

"Don't you raise your voice to me!" Lyle shouted back at her.

Debbie leant against the wall for support. She didn't need this screaming match.

Lyle glanced at Debbie quickly, and made a face. A moment later, he went back to ignoring both of them.

* * *

When the elevator doors opened on Debbie's floor, Parker and Tucker were standing in the corridor in front of the elevators.

"He's completely stark raving mad, daddy, you do realise that?" Debbie said, stepping out of the elevator.

Napea quickly stepped out after her.

Tucker frowned, and looked inside the elevator.

"You're brother's completely mental!" Debbie told Parker. "You should have him put away!"

From inside the elevator, Lyle laughed suddenly. "My mother tried that once, did you know? It didn't work!"

Napea stepped closer to Debbie.

Parker stepped around Debbie and stepped into the elevator and hit the button to stop the doors from closing and to stop the elevator from leaving, and walked slowly toward her brother.

"You think I'm scared of you?" Lyle asked. "You're the one who should be scared of me!"

Parker smiled menacingly, pleased of the provocation, then the lights in the elevator went out, and in the corridor too, and maybe even on the whole floor, or the whole building. "What the hell?" she scowled angrily.

A moment later, Debbie watched as the lights all along the corridor started up again, one by one, racing toward her, and then when she turned, she saw that the elevator lights had come back on too.

Parker glared at Lyle, picking himself up off the elevator floor, and smiled at him when he finally looked at her.

"Breach," Tucker concluded, glancing at Debbie, who looked at him quickly.

"What the fuck, Lyle!" Parker shouted, thrusting her hands out in front of her, and Debbie's attention was drawn back to the elevator. "Get away from me!" Parker yelled, stepping sharply out of reach of her brother, who'd just thrown up an inglorious amount of blood onto her expensive suit ensemble.

Parker put a hand over her mouth, staring at the ceiling and trying not to look at the blood. "I think I'm going to be sick!"

Tucker started to move toward Parker, until he was stopped by his cell phone buzzing loudly. "Damn! I'm sorry, Miss Parker," he began, but Parker waved a hand in his direction, without looking at him, directing him to go, do his job. Tucker nodded and hurried away.

Parker pointed a finger in Lyle's direction. "I don't even want to know what that is!" she growled. She dropped her gaze from the ceiling to glare at her brother, but her attention was caught by something on her jacket and she stared at the blob of _something_ on her suit jacket amongst all of the blood.

In the doorway to the elevator, Lyle stared at Debbie and reached out a hand, as though hoping she would help him.

Debbie started to frown – he wasn't serious, was he – before she realised, slowly, that it wasn't her he was hoping would help at all, but Napea, who was standing directly behind her, arms holding her tightly, eyes closed, trying to pretend that everything was fine.

"RUN!" Parker screamed at the top of her voice, from inside the elevator, and spun around, pulling her gun from its holster as she did.

Debbie jammed her eyes closed and waited for Parker to run past her after Lyle, who'd taken his sister's advice and ran.

* * *

Parker strode into the dining hall, an hour later, and upon seeing Debbie sitting with Napea and Sydney, laughed, eyes glinting, and replaced her gun in its holster. "Next time!" she told them, eyes wide, expression excited, and turned on her heel and walked back out.

When she'd gone, Sydney sighed heavily.

Tucker walked in, a short while later, a small contingency of techs following in his wake, and Cox walking beside him, complaining about the power outages, and the affect they were having on his doing his job, on the whole department doing their jobs.

Debbie, of course, knew that the important departments were supplied backup for when electricity cut outs occurred, though not the corridors, and only one of the elevators, the main elevator, which was also used for transport purposes, the transport of people coming second to its more important duties when it came to important cargo.

A loud whistle stopped him in his tracks – Debbie almost jumped out of her seat – and Tucker turned around and frowned, quickly sidestepping another tech.

"The substation's that way," Lyle told him, hurrying across the room. He glanced at the other techs and frowned.

Tucker nodded. "We've got this," he assured them.

They turned and left, headed back to Tech Space, on SL-5.

"It's not exactly," Lyle tossed his head, frowning, "safe. It's a very old substation, and it hasn't been serviced in… some time, let us just say." He frowned after the techs almost at the end of the corridor now. "Shhh!"

Tucker made a face. "Where?" he asked, realising that he was nowhere near the substation.

"SL-25," Lyle told him.

Tucker laughed shortly. "Why! Why do they do that?"

"Oh, they're thoughtful people, are those people!" Lyle agreed, and blinked several times. "SL-25," he repeated.

"There's no other way?" Tucker asked.

Lyle shook his head, distant. "No way out," he said, faraway.

"Alright!" Tucker replied, and started in the direction of the elevators in a determined half-march.

"Take the stairs," Lyle told him.

"If the power goes, they'll lock."

Lyle shook his head. "Magnetic."

"They unlock?"

Lyle nodded.

"You know the codes?"

Lyle retrieved his employee card from his jacket.

Tucked nodded. "Oh, God, I don't understand people like that!" he said finally. There was nothing on SL-25. He sighed. "Why'd I ever get into this field?" he asked himself.

Beside him, Lyle smiled.

"Why'd you?"

"I'm a psychologist," Lyle replied.

Tucked laughed. A psychologist, sure!

* * *

Maybe Debbie was the only one who'd noticed, but she'd noticed. She stood in the parking lot beside Lyle's car, and waited for him to open the door and get out.

"Are you waiting for me?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.

Debbie crossed her arms against the brittle gust that had just swept over the parking lot.

"It'll rain later. Hail later," Lyle told her absently.

"What was that about in the elevator?" Debbie demanded, tiredly.

Lyle laughed, the sound as bitter as the chilly wind.

Debbie unfurled her arms and reached out and grabbed his left hand in her right hand. "Last time I checked you had four fingers, not five," she told him, irritable.

"Second last time you checked," Lyle replied, and waited for her to let go of his hand and walked away, toward the entrance of the building.

Debbie frowned, agitated, and followed him inside, shoes crunching. "How'd SL-25 go?" she asked loudly.

"Sorted," he called back to her, without turning.

He stopped, and Debbie, who kept walking, eventually drew level with him and stopped and looked at him. "So, who are you today?"

He smiled. "Don't push it away, Debbie."

"You pushed her away!" Debbie reminded him. "And out a window."

"It was unavoidable," Lyle replied, unaffected.

"Oops!" Debbie proposed, with widening eyes.

Lyle tossed his head. She'd said it, not him.

"Part and parcel of the business," Debbie replied, and set off toward the building once more.

Lyle walked after her.

Debbie stopped at the door and turned back to face him. "We've met before, haven't we?"

Lyle smiled. "Yes, we have."

Debbie smiled back at him, and walked inside, but when he'd gone, when he could no longer see her, she dropped the smile.

She could not remember how they'd met, yet she knew they had.

* * *

_I know exactly nothing about magnetic locks, but do correct me if I am wrong. TBC?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Cures for insomnia** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

As a child, he'd believed in dreams – but all adults knew that dreams were only what you made them.

He thought about his sister, and what had happened in the elevator – how strange it was that she hadn't been concerned, but upset, but not just upset… furious.

He thought about telling her that their mother had once tried – had once had – him put away, after a fashion, and felt awful, and petty, and suddenly ill. What a thing to say? She'd been ill, so very ill. And, to be honest, he'd never even known her. And then he went and said something like that! For what reason?

To hurt his sister? He didn't want to hurt his sister! And if that was the sort of person Lyle had been – then he wanted nothing to do with that person! He was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn't – he wasn't Lyle, from what he knew of Lyle, he didn't even like him! So why was he trying so hard to be like him?

But in the end, he knew the answer to that too – because what else could he do?

He felt bad, now, for threatening her, or warning her – he couldn't be sure with Lyle, which it had truly been – whether it had been for a valid reason or not. Besides, he'd lied to her first, because he knew that, though he was not afraid of her, she frightened him, and he knew too, as the primary, that he had every reason to be frightened of her – because if she so much as wanted it, there would be nothing he could do to stop her!

* * *

Tonight, he couldn't sleep. He was thinking about home – the thought of which made him want to laugh, or cry, or both. _Home!_ But, in truth, Nebraska had been his home, for a long time, and even it ghosts – lost souls, and angry souls, and long-ago dreams – had been his family.

At the moment, he was watching television, though, he found, he didn't care for it as much as he thought he would.

He'd woken up, an hour ago, and, unable to sleep, he'd decided to watch television, but he'd just ended up wondering what his sister was doing, and wondered if he'd care for television more if he had someone to watch it with.

He picked up the remote control and changed channels on the television and thought about Jimmy, who was dead, and frowned and put the remote control down on the couch beside him.

Strange, that they – Lyle and he – had different recollections of the same event. For a moment, he wondered which was the more accurate, but frowned and decided that, of course, his recollection of events was what had really happened, and Lyle's were not.

For a long time, he could not understand how they'd had different recollections, and then he realised what it must have been, that it must have been, partly, the concussion, and partly because what had really happened had hurt more than the false reality he had constructed, so, of course, he'd taken the memory that hurt less, but which also just happened to be the memory that made him into something that Bobby, despite himself, hated.

Bobby frowned, as a thought occurred to him, and wanted to push it away – put both hands out in front of him to push it away – because he didn't want it, wished he'd never had it, didn't want to know the end of it, but, despite all that, couldn't stop it, he already knew what was going to happen – and started crying.

They weren't the same! They weren't! There was a point where he could say _There, that was where it happened, that was where he started and I ended, that was were we changed!_ and if all that was a lie, if they'd never really changed – he didn't want to live anymore!

He seized the remote control and threw it across the room. Stupid, stupid thing! He hated it too! And he hated Lyle! And he hated… himself!

How much better, he thought, would her life have been, if he'd never been born! How much better would all of their lives have been! He didn't want to be _that_! He didn't want to be anything anymore!

But he wasn't a child anymore, and merely wanting for something – wouldn't make it so!

Except, it had never made it so.

* * *

Lyle had always maintained that they'd been different, he told himself in the morning, and there was no reason for him to think otherwise – except that, despite the fact that he'd been younger, and that Lyle had come after, and that Lyle had always said it had been him, who'd been the more childish one, he knew it had always been Lyle, and he knew that he was too old now for all of that, that dreams were a lie they told you to make you sleep, to make you forget, to make you forgive… but he didn't want to be so angry, so empty of hope… but he didn't want to be like Lyle either… and if he wasn't like Lyle, then what could he possibly be… but realistic?

But perhaps it was merely a case of being too realistic, of seeing things a little too literally in the one direction?

Perhaps what was needed was a compromise between realistic and romantic?

* * *

When he'd driven into work in the morning, Debbie had been waiting for him in the parking lot – which hadn't been all that surprising in itself really – but which had become considerably more surprising when he'd realised that Debbie was right, that they had met before… quite a long time before, but not so far back before as for him to have been himself – to have been Bobby, and not Lyle – as, after all, Debbie was not that old.

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, everything wasn't as bad as he'd first anticipated, as he'd first thought, and maybe, Lyle wasn't as bad as he'd first thought… maybe he hadn't wanted to be that person he had decided he would be either?

But somehow, that only made him more miserable, which was so much like himself, that he wanted to laugh… and cry.

Why did it have to be so hard? Why was he so fucked up? But he knew what Lyle's answer to that would be: Why is everyone?

* * *

Debbie supposed – maybe – she'd always known that her attraction to Cox – though she'd been unwilling to admit to even that – at least the initial attraction, was not so much her doing, or even anyone's doing, it just was, something that had to happen.

Except later, she'd been faced with a choice, though, at the time, she'd not even known it. Because now, she could feel it, could feel that it was not so much that inevitability which pushed her towards him, but a _real_ attraction, or an attraction of her own choice, because she'd decided that there was something about him – something inside – that she did not completely detest, something that she could cultivate, as awful and as manipulative as that sounded, because if she was to be stuck, so to speak, with him for the rest of her life, then maybe it wouldn't be quite as bad as she'd imagined.

Of course, she could think all of this – after reading the paperback book she'd found in her father's makeshift study – the spare room – last night on such things, on Convergence, as it was known – and spent most of the night perusing, reading parts, skimming others – another clue from Jarod, which her father had taken home to study more.

And now, she decided, was the time for truth, and proof; now, she would tell someone what she'd read in the book, and she'd ask that someone what he thought, if they thought it was real, it could possibly be real, because she wasn't silly, and she recognised Jarod's handwriting when she saw it – he did send her an anonymous birthday card every year, under the alias of Julie Smith (surely a common enough name), and in 'Julie's' handwriting on the envelope, and his own print-type handwriting inside the card – and it was scrawled all over the margins, contesting this, or highlighting or questioning that.

It was obvious, she decided, that Jarod did not believe in the concept, that Jarod was dubious of it; but now she had to decide whether she believed it or not, and what that would mean.

If only she could somehow contact Jarod!

But as it was, that was not possible, and, by any measure, the whole prospect would probably be easier – and a lot less worrying – if she hadn't just learned that she'd had a connection to the Center far earlier than even she had remembered, in the form of a connection to Lyle, who she'd somehow met, a long time ago, before she could even remember doing so. Such connections, after all, almost _always_ turned out to be all the more sinister, and all the more important to what was actually happening than anyone could ever have known, or possibly suspected.

If she could have contacted Jarod, she would also ask him about that, about her having known Lyle – somehow – or her thinking that she had, and Lyle wanting her to think that she'd had.

* * *

Instead, she told Sydney.

Sydney did not say anything.

Debbie wondered if he was in shock, after realising with whom she'd slept, and who the unborn baby's father must therefore be. Or maybe the shock was because she hadn't declared her undying hatred of him, or that he'd somehow tricked her into sleeping with him, or forced her into doing so, or had convinced her – by way of deaths threats to her personage, her unborn baby, her family, her loved ones, her friends – that he was not as bad as they all made out and that she was willing to give him a second chance, to let him show her that he wasn't what they all made out.

She took the book out of her handbag and passed it – across the table, and his paperwork – to Sydney, who wordlessly took it from her.

"Won't you say anything?" she implored after a long moment, causing Sydney to frown considerably.

"I'm sorry, Debbie," he replied, "I just cannot understand where you've struck upon this notion, and for what reason."

"But doesn't it seem to make sense? Doesn't it fit?"

"I'm not sure that it does, Debbie."

Debbie sighed. "Are you confused by the anomaly part? The part that says that people who do not possess the anomaly can only have Convergence if it is with another person who does?"

Sydney grimaced. "Yes, Debbie, that is one of the confusing parts."

"Obviously Cox has this anomaly himself," Debbie told him.

Sydney sighed heavily. "Don't you think, Debbie, that this is, perhaps, all a little too convenient?"

"At first I did think that," Debbie replied, "but now I think that maybe he is a Perceptive of some kind. An Empath, or an ISP?"

Sydney made a face. "ISP?"

"Inner Sense possessor," Debbie clarified.

Sydney smiled. "I've not heard that one before."

"It's how the book refers to them," Debbie explained, "though it does point out that Perceptive is a term coined, not by its own corporation, but by the Center, and that its own corporation refers after such people as Ambients, rather than Perceptives."

Sydney frowned. "Indeed."

Debbie frowned too. "What are you thinking?" she asked, troubled.

Sydney smiled again. "Only that you seem to have read the book quite well," he replied.

"Do you think it's possible then, or am I merely going mad?"

Sydney frowned. "Anything is possible, as they say," he told her. "And, of course you're not going mad. Though, were you to be, the fact that you are questioning your condition would seem to be a very encouraging one in the department of acceptance and possible recovery."

"Possible recovery?" Debbie questioned.

Sydney smiled. "Recovery," he rephrased.

Debbie smiled too. "You're not fond of it, are you? The concept, or that I like him?"

Sydney sighed. "In truth, no, I am not fond of either."

"But I do like him," Debbie told him. "I don't know how, or why, but I do."

"The question is, Debbie: But does he like you?"

Debbie sighed. "I don't know. I'd like to think so, but I don't know," she replied. "And I keep hearing such awful things."

"Awful things quickly become your closest confidante when working for the Center," Sydney replied, frowning.

"Do _you_ think he's really so awful?"

"To all appearances, outwardly, it would seem so."

"And he threatened my dad," Debbie added.

"And he threatened your dad," Sydney agreed.

Debbie sighed and stood from her chair. "Will you keep this just between us?" she asked.

Sydney smiled. "Of course."

"Thank you, Sydney," Debbie told him, and smiled too.

* * *

Sydney would worry immensely, she knew, but hopefully he would not break his promise, and hopefully he would not deal with Cox himself, hopefully he was well enough acquainted with the rules to know that that would be a very bad thing for both the baby and herself.

Remembering the time, she walked away for her session with Dade, Kim and Cox.

* * *

At lunch, she spotted Lyle in the dining hall, and walked over to the table where he was sitting, frowning at the computer screen on his laptop.

"It's not a difficult task," he was saying to no one, or perhaps to the laptop computer. After a moment, he sighed, and sat back in his chair. "Always the same, isn't it?" He frowned. "There is one thing, though. If- Miss Broots."

"Do you believe in Convergence?" Debbie asked, stopping on the other side of the table.

"Personally?"

"Personally."

"It's difficult to say."

"Try to say."

"I'd rather not," Lyle replied. "I'm afraid I would have to start quoting Sydney."

"And what would Sydney say?" Debbie asked.

"That evidence suggests that other people believe."

Debbie smiled. "Are you sure you're not just making that up?"

"I'm not just making that up!" he told her, and frowned.

Debbie stopped smiling. "How do we know each other?" she asked honestly.

"I was assigned, whilst working for a splinter group, undercover, to… how do I say this?" He sighed. "You were born… just…" He sighed again. "It's not the sort of thing you say lightly."

"I was born in the Center?" Debbie tried to guess, feeling suddenly sick, and wondering if the Center had her mother.

"Yes, sweetheart, but perhaps we should discuss this in my office?"

"I bet they all say that," Debbie told him.

"I bet they do," he agreed.

* * *

"Tell me my mother's alright!" Debbie burst out, the moment he'd shut the door. "Tell me they don't have her!"

"Your mother, or the woman you think is your mother?" Lyle asked.

Debbie stared at him, wondering if she was in shock. She was sure she couldn't feel her fingers, or her lips. "What do you mean?" she said, voice almost empty in an attempt to keep it from shaking.

"What do I mean? Alright," he replied, "the woman in the photograph that I showed you a while back, the woman who you think is your mother. No, the Center do not have her."

Debbie made a face. She needed to sit down, she thought distantly. "She's not my mother?"

"She's not your mother," Lyle confirmed. "But she is your aunt."

"My mother's sister?"

"Your father's sister."

Debbie stared. "Then… Is my father – the man I think is my father – really my father?"

Lyle smiled. "Of course he is, my dear."

Debbie's lip shook. "You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not just saying that."

"Then I have the anomaly… too?"

"Yes." He frowned. "You can sit down if you want." He pointed behind him. "No one's sitting there."

Debbie glanced past him at the chair in front of his desk, and then walked over and sat down, feeling better to be off her feet, though it was small comfort, since she had just learned that the woman she had always thought – known – to be her mother, really wasn't her mother at all. "Do you know who my real mother is?" she asked Lyle, who'd walked around his desk.

"I do."

"Then would you please tell me?"

Lyle sighed. "Yeah."

Debbie made a face. "I'd really like to know who my real mother is please."

"I'm sorry, darl, but she doesn't know who you are," Lyle told her, glancing at something on his desk momentarily. "At least, she doesn't know that you're her daughter."

Debbie gaped, and laughed. "Then who does she think I am? Does she know me, or know of me? Do I know her?" She started to feel ill, as though she might be sick.

"My sister," Lyle replied, finally glancing up from his desk.

Debbie laughed hysterically. He was having her on! This was all a stupid joke to him! Or he was trying to get back at her for shooting him! "We're related?" she asked, disbelieving.

"You were born and grew up in an auxiliary of the Center Corporation until you were three years old," Lyle told her.

Debbie stared at him.

"Your name was Destiny Faith, after Miss Parker's adopted sister, Faith, who died of childhood illness."

"Of cancer," Debbie corrected.

"Of cancer," Lyle agreed.

Debbie made a face, tears filling her eyes. "She's my mother?"

"She's your mother."

"But I can't tell her?"

Lyle sighed. "But you can't tell her."

Debbie sniffed and brushed at her eyes to clear the tears that were suddenly making her vision blurry. "I want to tell her."

Lyle frowned.

"I want her to know!" Debbie protested, pushing herself to her feet. "I want my mother to know who I am, to know that I exist! Is that so much to ask?"

"There is no place in the Center for questions, Debbie," Lyle told her.

Debbie sniffed again. "Am I an ISP?" she asked. It was only the right thing to ask, seeing as Miss Parker was, and she'd just found out that Miss Parker was her mother.

Lyle nodded shortly.

"Are you?"

He shook his head. "No."

Debbie made a face. "Why not? You're my uncle, aren't you?"

"We don't share the same expression," Lyle told her.

"Why not?"

"I don't know why."

"I want to tell her!"

"I'm sorry."

"Please?"

"No."

Debbie dropped her face to the floor. "What if I don't listen to you and tell her anyway?"

Lyle sighed. "If you do, you do. What can I do?"

Debbie rubbed at her eyes and looked up from the floor. "How do I – we – know Napea?"

"I threw her out of a window."

"But how do I know her?"

"She works in the dining hall."

Debbie made a face. "I mean before," she told Lyle.

"Oh, you knew her before?" Lyle asked.

Debbie frowned. Of course she'd known her before, and so had he!

"We might have, ah, met before," he conceded.

"You and me, when we were… escaping?"

"When…? Oh, then? Yeah, then."

Debbie stared at him, wondering if she'd been there too, at the Center too.

"Emily… ah, Na- Natalie-"

"Napea," Debbie corrected.

"Napea… We met her at a motel."

Debbie wiped her nose on the back of her hand and stared.

Lyle made a face and passed her the tissue box from off the top of the filing cabinet, which Debbie did not take but took two tissues from, and Lyle placed back down on his desk.

"Thanks," she muttered. "And?"

"And what?"

"What was she doing at the motel?" Debbie asked the obvious.

Lyle made a face. "What do people usually do at motels?"

Debbie stared at him. "I don't know," she said after a while.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"What was she doing at the motel?"

"What do you think she was doing?"

"I don't remember," Debbie told him.

"What do you _think_ she was doing?"

"Nothing," Debbie replied.

"Nothing? Then why did you ask?"

"Why are you getting so defensive?" Debbie asked.

Lyle frowned, and crossed his arms. "You think… she was… That wasn't what she was doing."

Debbie shrugged. "Okay," she replied.

"Okay?"

"I believe you," Debbie elaborated.

"Okay," Lyle replied.

Debbie smiled.

Lyle frowned. "Why don't you ask her?"

"I will," Debbie told him, quickly glancing at her watch on the underside of her left wrist.

"Good then," Lyle said, not looking at her. "The door's behind you."

Debbie turned around and walked out.

* * *

Napea stared at her, placing the plates she'd collected from the table into the plastic tub and frowning. "What do you mean? What was I doing at which motel?"

"When I was younger," Debbie told her in a low voice, "we met before, at a motel. What were you doing at the motel?"

Napea blinked. "Nothing," she replied, and went back to work, now wiping the table down.

"Yes you were," Debbie pressed. "You can't just have been doing nothing."

"Why can't I have?"

Debbie made a face.

"What did he tell you I was doing?" Napea asked, annoyed, realising that she wasn't the first once Debbie had asked this question.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? That's what he said? 'Nothing'?"

"Yes."

Napea sighed heavily, and laughed. "If I could stand the thought without wanting to puke, may be I would say that, but that's not likely."

Debbie frowned.

"You know how it is," Napea said. "You're young, and your life sucks-"

"You tried to kill yourself!" Debbie half-gasped, half-admonished.

Napea shrugged.

"I would never do that!" Debbie told her.

She shrugged again.

Debbie smiled. "How romantic!"

Napea stared at her, sickened.

Debbie pulled out a chair and quickly sat down. "Tell me all about it!"

Napea made a face.

"You must," Debbie told her, "or I'll think the worst!"

"It wasn't romantic," Napea told her. "I was the one who'd tried to kill myself, who'd nearly hung myself, and he was the one acting as though he couldn't breathe."

"Maybe he was scared that you would die?" Debbie suggested.

Napea laughed. She didn't think so, somehow!

"Maybe he liked you, and didn't know how to talk to you?"

Napea stared at her. For a moment, Debbie was sure she was going to ask her whose side exactly she was on, but she didn't. "If that was the case, when I said, 'I'm going to die!', he wouldn't have replied, 'You're not going to die!', unless he was a sadistic son of a bitch, which – oh my God, I'm simply shocked! – he is!"

Debbie shrugged and stood up. "I bet you just made that up now," she told Napea. "I bet you were really doing something else, but just don't want to admit it."

Napea laughed.

Debbie smiled and walked away, and wondered, with a twist in her stomach that she pretended she didn't notice, why the Center had chosen her father to be her father – because she was sure Parker, though her biological mother, had not had her, that they'd not met and conceived her – wondered if the Center had known who her father really was, that he was his sister's brother – his sister who'd once been one of their Pretenders – and wondered why Lyle had rescued her, but hadn't later brought her back to the Center, once his mission with the splinter group had been completed, and why he didn't now inform them of who she really was.

Or maybe he already had?

* * *

_So lame! *sighs* TBC?_


End file.
